Free Winter Frost by R. D. Wingfield

would interrupt the questioning of a murder suspect unless it was important. He opened the door. Bill Wells beckoned him outside. "Forensic have matched the prints on the knife, Jack. They're the tom's . . . no other prints."
        "Shit!" He scratched his chin in thought. "Her prints . . . which means it was probably her knife. She must have cut herself in the struggle. Has the lab checked for blood on Gladstone's clothes yet?"
        "They're still working on it. I'll let you know as soon as I hear. Oh, and Mr. Mullett wants to see you."
        "Bloody hell! I thought the sod had gone home. What did he say about his motor?"
        "Nothing I could repeat."
        Frost nodded and returned to the interview room. "Right . . . so she came at you with a knife . . . then what?"
        "Knife? Of course she didn't come at me with a knife. She came at me with her bleeding long fingernails. I didn't mind them digging in my back, but when she tried to scratch me eyes out . . ."
        "Was that when you strangled her?"
        "Strangled her? I never touched her!"
        Frost leant across the table. "Show me your hands."
        Frowning, Gladstone put his hands, palms upwards, on the table. Frost turned the right hand over and tapped the knuckles. They were grazed with a dribble of blood and slightly swollen. "You punched her . . . she had a black eye. Don't bother denying it, we can get Forensic to match skin samples."
        "All right, so I hit her—once—and in self-defence . . . I didn't want my eyeballs stuck on the ends of her painted bleeding fingernails. I finished getting dressed and got the hell out of there."
        "Slow down," urged Frost. "You've missed out the bit about wrapping your hands round her neck and squeezing the life out of the poor cow."
        "The poor cow was alive, well and effing and blinding as I left. I drove off, realized the bitch had nicked my wallet, so . . . back I go . . ."
        "Is this when you strangled her?"
        "How many more bleeding times . . . I didn't even get back in . . . The cow had locked the door on me."
        "The door wasn't locked when I took you back there," said Morgan.
        "Of course it wasn't, you Welsh twit—she had to open it to let the killer in . . . unless he was already in there. Come to think of it, I did hear a man's voice."
        "And you've only just remembered it," cut in Frost. "Do me a bloody favour!"
        Gladstone leant back in the chair and folded his arms defiantly. "All right. If you're not going to believe anything I say, I'm not saying another word. I want a solicitor."
        "Your prerogative," said Frost. He watched Gladstone being led back to a cell, then yawned and stretched his arms wearily. He wondered if there would be time to watch the videoed fight in the rest room before the duty solicitor arrived and he wished Liz Maud would hurry back so she could take over this case.
        "You won't forget Mr. Mullett wants to see you," reminded Morgan.
        "It's one treat after another," said Frost, pushing himself up, but before he could do so, Bill Wells came in. "Good news, Jack."
        "Mullett's gone home?"
        "Not quite as good as that. Forensic phoned. Traces of blood on Gladstone's jacket which match the blood from the knife wound."
        Frost expelled a stream of cigarette smoke in a happy sigh of relief. "We've got him then. That's the clincher we need. He can lie and deny it as much as he flaming well likes, but there's only one way he could have got her blood on his jacket . . ." His voice tailed off as he became aware that Morgan was wriggling uncomfortably in the chair next to him. "What's the matter, Taffy—do you want to do a wee?"
        "No, guv . . ." He was squeezing his hands and staring at the ground in embarrassment, hoping Bill Wells would leave. "Something I should have mentioned earlier," he mumbled.
        Sensing something tasty, Bill Wells kicked the door shut and leaned